


Some Cowboys Ride Alone

by Princess of Geeks (Princess)



Category: Wilby Wonderful
Genre: M/M, Movie Tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-05
Updated: 2011-05-05
Packaged: 2017-10-19 01:55:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/195594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Princess/pseuds/Princess%20of%20Geeks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Duck, Dan and Buddy are dealing with the fallout of the events of the movie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Some Cowboys Ride Alone

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hanarobi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hanarobi/gifts).



They had just put "Pale Rider" into the DVD player, and Dan had just pulled the bag of popcorn from the microwave, when Duck thought he heard something. It was faint, and from outside, and maybe he was imagining it, but he had learned a long time ago that it was good to be careful about things like that. Frowning, he grabbed the remote and hit pause, and yeah....  
  
He got up and went to the door, where he stood listening for a minute, and Dan was still talking in the kitchen, something about the way the critics had missed the whole point of "Unforgiven," but Duck could hear it clearly now -- hesitant footsteps, heavy, outside, going down the short flight of stairs at the stoop, going down and not up. And through the closed door he got a whiff of... cigarette smoke. Marlboro Lights.

He yanked the door open to see the broad, bent back of Buddy French, who turned to look over his shoulder, with despair clearly written on his face. He hadn't even knocked. Duck knew he had come up the steps and stood there and then turned away again. Without knocking. Duck moved his hand from the knob to the door frame, anchoring himself and leaning out.

"Hey, Buddy," Duck said, making it as matter of fact and calm as he could.

"Hey," Buddy said, weakly, and then he looked back down the stairs, toward where his own truck was parked, not the cruiser, and Duck realized he wasn't in uniform, either, but jeans and an old button-down. Buddy flicked his cigarette butt away.

Duck said, "Come on in; we're watching Clint Eastwood," and Buddy said, "Really, I don't---"

And Duck stepped back and pushed the door further open with one arm, palm flat against the panels, fingers splayed, and said, "It's 'Pale Rider,' I think it's probably my favorite," and Buddy said, "That's the one that's a ghost--"

And Duck said "Shh! You'll spoil the ending," even thought he knew for a fact that Dan had seen the movie more times than he himself had. By a factor of ten.

Buddy said, "Oh. Right," and without much more ado, he was inside, shaking Dan's hand without hesitation but with lowered eyes, and settling himself with much fidgeting onto one end of the battered sofa.

The popcorn was ready. It was hot, and its fragrance filled the room.

By the time the girl was rescued and the Preacher was calmly stalking the bad guys one by one, Dan had fallen into a doze, his head lolling back on the couch cushions. There were two empty beer bottles on the coffee table, and several empty popcorn bags and several empty sodas. Buddy got up. He brandished his cigarette pack, wordlessly conveying that he wasn't leaving, just going out on the porch.

"I'll pause it," Duck said, but Buddy waved him off.

Duck paused the show anyway, and as he did he heard the front door snick softly closed. Dan was snoring a little. Duck knew without really thinking about it that if he touched Dan the way his hand was craving to, the way he had in their bed only this morning, if he smoothed careful fingers over Dan's brow and gently, still so gently, down his cheek, down and down to his taut throat, that Dan would wake. So instead he kept his hands to himself and smiled, looking at the line of his jaw, thinking of how warm Dan's skin would feel. He would go have a smoke with Buddy. He was smoking less, since Dan came. Because he always went outside to do it, now, and sometimes it wasn't worth even that slight few minutes of separation just to get the buzz of a nicotine fix.

Buddy was sitting on the top step, staring into the dark street, smoke spiraling up in the still air. When Duck sat down beside him, Buddy felt for his lighter and offered it without looking over, but Duck was already lighting up. He still used a big silver Zippo; kind of an affectation, but hey. He'd had it a long time. He'd bought it in New Brunswick, a long time ago. It was kind of a souvenir. Buddy, glancing aside, tucked his Bic back into his pocket.

They smoked in silence. Duck watched a cloud of bugs zooming in futile circles under the streetlight. His cigarette tasted really good; maybe it was the cool air. Maybe it was the contrast -- the bite of hot smoke against the smooth remnants of oily popcorn and cold beer. A star was visible over the roof of the Carlton place across the street.

"Carol left today," Buddy said.

Duck pursed his lips. He made a sympathetic sound, deep in his throat. He didn't know quite what words were appropriate. Maybe none would be.

"She says she's going to stay on the mainland. For a while. Think things over. But. You know."

Duck felt really strongly that he should be saying something. Buddy had come to him, to tell him this. Or at least, Buddy had come to somewhere he knew he would be welcomed, and had blurted it out once he was here. Maybe it was one of those things you didn't intend to say until you found yourself saying it.

Duck, at last, found something to put into words. "You don't think she's coming back."

"No. No. I don't. She's talking as if it's some kind of trial separation." Buddy made an expansive, rejecting gesture with his Marlboro. "But I don't think she'll come back. I really don't."

Duck took the last drag. "I don't know what to say. Sorry?"

Buddy snorted; not quite a laugh, not quite a cough of disgust.

Duck lit up again, and they smoked some more, quiet.

When Buddy spoke again, his voice was strained and full of guilt. "Really, you don't have to pretend to be sorry. Under the circumstances. What she did; you know the story."

"I kinda couldn't avoid hearing it."

"Right. Well. What she did was ... I can't quite decide if she saved his life or almost finished the job, you know?"

Before Duck realized what he was doing, how it might possibly be received, he put his hand on Buddy's knee, squeezing and sliding it up and down a little and then patting him. It was meant as comfort, but he realized as he took his hand away that it was presumption. He was unintentionally presuming on the long-ago past he'd shared with this man. They'd been together so briefly, but Duck still felt the connection. It had never entirely receded for him, despite everything that had happened to them since. He was pretty sure it had never entirely receded for Buddy either. Time and distance seemed to have made no difference to fact of their past connection. Somehow they'd never lost it entirely. And knowing that was a good feeling. Duck had figured out a long time ago that he was gay, gay, oh so entirely gay. He'd left Wilby for a while to prove to himself he could make it somewhere else, before family necessity drew him back.

But Buddy had stayed, and had floundered and backfilled and agonized more about his sexuality than Duck felt was healthy for anyone, and had apparently made a place for himself in Wilby, finally, denying or repressing the desires of his younger self along the way. Or maybe he had figured out he was actually bisexual and made his peace that way with getting married. That was also possible. But Duck had never asked. When Duck had finally come back to Wilby to stay, Buddy had been married, and that, he had supposed, was that.

Given the history, and the recent disaster as well as, most importantly, Duck's feelings for the man sitting inside on the sofa, the very last thing Duck wanted was to send mixed signals now. With an embarrassed pat, he took his hand away from Buddy's thigh.

"Sorry," he said, realized he was repeating himself, and cleared his throat.

"Oh, shit," Buddy said in a choked voice, and turned to Duck and put his arms around him and clutched at him.

Duck squeezed his eyes shut. _'Oh, shit' is right_ , he thought, but he brought his arms up and answered the hug. Buddy was trying to cry, and trying not to cry, all at the same time. _Men are shit at crying,_ Duck thought, patting Buddy's back, smoothing down the warm damp line of his spine, just holding him. He wondered why it was Duck's clumsy attempt at comfort that had finally broken him. No telling, really. But there was no one else, probably, among his and Carol's plastic friends. It made Duck sad, to think that about Buddy and Carol's life.

Very soon Buddy got his tears under control. With a ragged, wet sniff, Buddy squeezed Duck's shoulders hard and rested his mouth against Duck's neck, just for a minute, and then before Duck had to tell him to quit it, that he couldn't, and had to face that unguarded hurt in Buddy's eyes, Buddy pulled back. Buddy started rubbing his face, and talking again.

A sixth sense, a tingle at his back, made Duck look over his shoulder. Dan was standing in the open door, looking worried.

Buddy, rubbing his red face, had his eyes closed. He didn't know Dan was there. "I'm such a fucking idiot," he was saying. "I don't care what you hear, what people say. They don't know shit. It's Dan who's the brave one."

Glancing back at Dan, Duck put his hand on Buddy's broad shoulder and squeezed.

"Come on," Duck said. "Let's watch the end of the movie."

Buddy heaved himself to his feet, looking down the whole time, but he let Duck lead him back inside. As they settled themselves again, Duck wished he could say something to make the slight wrinkle of concern leave Dan's forehead. He felt torn; between the past and the present, between obligation and commitment, between nostalgia and love. With difficulty, he returned his attention to Clint Eastwood. Buddy was having trouble focusing too. He watched the movie all the way to the end, dutifully, but it was obvious he wasn't really following it.

Duck made it a point to sit closer to Dan than he had before, and to let their knees touch, and without making a big deal about it, when he had downed the last handful of the last bag of popcorn, he fit his hand between them and laced his fingers with Dan's.

When the movie was over, Dan leaned forward to read the credits, but Buddy got up and stretched.

"Thanks for having me over," he said, to the room at large, and he patted his pockets, found his keys, and jingled them with an air of finality. Dan got up to shake his hand again. They both seemed uncomfortable. Duck followed him out. Buddy paused at the top step again and looked out over the lawn, visibly gathering his strength. He made a fist and released it a couple of times.

Duck didn't want to stop him, didn't intend to stop him, as Buddy made his way down the stairs, walking like he didn't know where his feet went. It was late and Duck's eyes were gritty and Dan was waiting. But he found himself saying, "Where are you staying?"

Buddy turned, slowly, like he really didn't want to look back. "Um." He paused, as if it had just occurred to him that once he got in the truck, he would have to go somewhere. "I don't want to go home. Even though Carol's not there." He looked away again, toward the streetlight. All the bugs were gone, it was so late. "I guess I'll go crash on the carpeting at Mom's."

"Shit." The expletive was involuntary.

Buddy smiled grimly. "It's okay, really. I lived there a long time. And when Mom died, I was there with her." He looked away again. "I'm not afraid to sleep there. It still feels like home." He met Duck's eyes again. "It's not going to be a problem."

Duck shook his head. "If you say so. But. You could sleep here, on the sofa, if you don't want to go home." The words were reluctant, but felt as if they had to be said.

Buddy made his lips into a thin line and shook his head emphatically. Maybe he'd been remembering things too, although Duck somehow knew they'd never talk about the past again.

"Tell Dan I'm sorry."

Duck frowned. "For what? You mean, like apologizing for Carol?"

"Yes. I guess so."

"You don't have to do that for her. Especially if she's gone."

Buddy just shook his head, and Duck could see the unshed tears glistening in his eyes. He impulsively went down the steps to him again, put his arms around him, and before he realized what a bad idea it was, he had kissed Buddy, on the mouth -- soft and warm and full of regret. Duck realized even as he did it that the regret was not his own.

Then Buddy's hands were on his shoulders, holding him tight and pushing him away, all at the same time.

"Tell him for me, okay?"

Duck nodded, and he watched until Buddy's truck had turned the corner and even the sound of the engine had vanished into the night.

When he turned back to the house, Dan was standing on the top step with folded arms, looking sad.

Duck frowned and went to him quickly, pulling him back inside before he put his arms around him and rested his head on Dan's shoulder. Dan hugged him back -- immediately, whole-heartedly.

Duck said, his voice muffled in Dan's shirt, "Sorry about that. We've been friends a long time."

"He's your.... Is he your ex?"

"I guess you could say that." Duck moved away, to collect the popcorn trash, the soda cans, the empties. He needed to be moving. "One of them, anyway. But not like Val, though. Not serious like that."

"I understand," Dan said, and he was making sure the door was shut-to, and then he turned the deadbolt. It made Duck happy; it was like one more sign that Dan felt that this was home, that he wasn't a guest. Then Dan came to him and put a hand on his chest, making Duck still instantly, so he could feel this. Dan traced the corner of his eye, the line of his cheekbone. Then he let his hand drop with his glance.

Duck pulled him close again. He wanted to tell him that none of it mattered now, like whatever happened with Val didn't have to matter now. That it was just the two of them now. A new start.

What he said was, "It's late."

"Yeah," Dan agreed. "Let's go to bed."

They smiled at each other, and the whole way down the hall to the little bedroom at the back of the house, they held hands like teenagers.

When Duck was finally settled under the blankets, spooned against Dan's back in the way that already felt so familiar and so right, he thought about Buddy's sad face. His mouth held an old memory of his soft lips, and though he couldn't deny the past, he knew he'd done what he could to make his peace. He'd moved on; he figured Buddy would eventually. Duck knew where he belonged now. And he was so, so grateful that Dan did too.

  
end


End file.
